


And I dream of sunshine

by Fushicho



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Cult of Kate, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Happy Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26387635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fushicho/pseuds/Fushicho
Summary: After the mountain, Geralt stumble across Jaskier and realises that his absence isn't as much of a blessing as he thought
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 11
Kudos: 412
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	And I dream of sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to suggest any tags that might be relevant!
> 
> This is entirely Kate's fault, and I want to thank kaermoron's formidable work as a beta. You've been saved from MANY spelling mistakes.  
> And special thanks to Cylin who gave me the best comments ever when I was working on this fic and motivated me to finish it. I don't think I could have done this without you!

His head throbs with a migraine he shouldn't have, tainting his vision with a veil of red. Adrenaline still runs high in his blood and everything seems to _hurt._ The world almost spins around him, and he tries to calm his heart, to go back to the slow rhythm he should have. The silence, almost eerie now that everyone's gone, helps to sooth his nerves.

Until Jaskier comes.

That bard never learned to shut up.

Each word is like a needle in his forehead. He's never been good at managing pain, not outside of combat, and he _snaps_ when he doesn't think he can take it anymore.

"If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!"

It seems effective, for once, and Geralt is almost surprised when the bard leaves. It takes him an hour to feel calm enough. There's still faint aches here and there, and he feels _raw_ , but he can manage. He'll be able to tune Jaskier's chatter out without snapping at him like he just did.

Except there's no one waiting for him when he goes back to camp. He knew Yennefer wouldn't be here, the sorceress made that much clear, but he thought the human would have stuck around. It takes him a few minutes to realize that it's not just about gathering the rest of the story. Jaskier's things are gone.

He left.

For good apparently.

Geralt sighs, and doesn't know if it's relief or annoyance. At least it means he's not responsible for the bard anymore, and he can finally have the peace he wished for during all those years. No more angry husbands, no more parties or bardic competitions, no more incessant chatter.

He's a bit taken aback when he finds out that he can't fall asleep as easily as he thought. But truly he should have seen it coming: as much as a nuisance Jaskier could be, he got used to him, to the noises he makes by simply being alive. It's not that surprising that after falling asleep to the sound of a heartbeat and slow breathing for years, the silence leaves him struggling.

He just needs a few days to adjust and fall back to his old habits.

It will get better in no time.

A day passes.

Then two.

A week.

A month.

A season.

Geralt hates cities. They're full of noises, of people, of scents. He avoids them as much as he can and rarely spends more than half a day in them. Get in, see if there's work, take the contract, get out. Then he returns to collect his payment, maybe indulge in a bath, an ale or a prostitute, rarely all three, and gets out after replenishing his supplies. He doesn't even sleep in inns anymore.

He did it a few times, when being alone was still a novelty, but quickly realized he couldn't if he wanted to avoid strangling anyone. Jaskier's songs were annoying when the bard sang them, but hearing them in anyone else's mouth was far worse. They never could get it right.

Today his plan is to shove a drowner's heads at an alderman's feet, collect his coin then ride off in the forest he could see from the city. He isn't injured, he somehow managed to stay clean if you didn't look too closely at his boots, and has enough supplies to last him until the next merchant if he manages to hunt a dinner or two.

But then.

Then there's a sound he could recognize in his sleep. Filavandrel's lute. He turns around, his heart surging in his throat... but Jaskier isn't there. Did he imagine it? No, no. He didn't sleep well last night but not to the point of having hallucinations. There's an explanation. Probably. He spots the inn, not far from the alderman's house, and the next time the door swings open he can hear the lute again. Accompanied by a voice he knows as well as his own.

 _Jaskier_.

His heart sinks in his chest, feeling light and heavy at the same time. He knows he should go. Knows he should ride to the forest now so he can set camp, maybe even hunt while there's still daylight _and_ have a proper night of rest.

But he's drawn to the inn like a moth to a flame.

He slips inside, careful to stay where the bard can't see him, because he knows that couldn't possibly go well. The only downside is that he can't see the bard either but he can _listen_ . It feels annoyingly familiar and something seems to settle inside him. He was probably just wondering if a vengeful husband finally got Jaskier's skin. After all, he spent _decades_ worrying about the human. He probably couldn't stop all at once.

The song comes to an end and the crowd cheers until the next one starts. He never heard that one before, yet he recognize a few words here and there and Geralt frowns until it clicks. That's the song Jaskier wrote while they were chasing the dragon down.

"So tell me, love, tell me, love.

How is that just?"

He knew the bard tweaked reality more often than not, but his songs were always based on _something_ and he can't help but wonder if this is about Yennefer. That was the only logical conclusion he could come to, this clearly wasn't about some random maiden. Could the human love the sorceress? No, he'd have seen something. He tries to listen to the words more than the song, focusing on their meaning rather than the music.

"I am _weak_ , my love, and I am wanting."

Geralt can't miss the way the human's voice goes just a bit too high, and somehow his heart aches. It doesn't sound _right_ , and he knows he needs to go. He can't stay, can't listen to that heart breaking song, and the longer he's frozen in place the more he risks to be spotted.

Which he very much doesn't want.

And when he finally, finally regains his ability to move, it's to get an ale and go sit in a dark corner where hopefully Jaskier will not venture now that he has an adoring public ready to sing his praises.

But nothing ever goes the way he wants it to.

He hasn't even received his drink yet when the song comes to an end, and the cheering crowd almost makes him wince.

But the next one doesn't start.

He can hear Jaskier thanks the _good people_ of whatever this city was named, and he knows he'll come by to get a drink soon. He glares at the inkeeper when his tankard is finally in front of him, the bard's closeness being the only thing that keeps a _"Fucking finally._ " from spilling out of his mouth, and he's about to go hide in a corner when his ears pick up an outraged gasp.

"Geralt. What are you doing here?"

He turns around, his shoulders tensing under the acidic tone. He heard it before, but never directed at him. That was the kind of novelty he'd rather have avoided, and he couldn't quite place why it made his heart throb painfully. He breathes in to give an answer, and is immediately hit by Jaskier's familiar scent. It feels nice, at first, and the ache in his chest is somewhat eased by the comforting smell of the chamomile oil the bard loves to use. But then he notices it. The human's sadness, his anger. It permeates from him, cloying, awful, and it takes _decades_ of carefully crafted indifference to keep his nose from furling.

"Had a contract. Wanted a drink."

As soon as the words spill out of his mouth, Geralt regrets them. He should have phrased it differently, should have used proper sentences for once. But he can't, not when he starts to notice everything that has changed in Jaskier. His hair isn't as bright as it used to be. His skin seems somewhat dull, and the purple hue under his eyes is new. His cheekbones are more defined than they used to be, his jaw sharper, and his clothes hang differently.

It screams of hunger and sleepless nights, but at least he can't smell any illness.

"Let me buy you one."

He adds when he catches a change in the bard's stance that meant he was about to walk away. He shouldn't do this, shouldn't want to stay with him _just a few more minutes_ and yet... here he was.

"Geralt. You do realise that I'm angry and that after what you've done? A drink isn't even close to-"

"I do."

He cuts, because he knows Jaskier will start rambling about what happened, what he did, and that it will only make him angrier. He can't let him work himself up, not if he wants to stay with him. Just a few more minutes.

"But I need to start somewhere, right?"

He can almost feel the seconds drag as he waits for an answer, asking every deity he knows, even though he doesn't believe in them, for a positive one, slowly expiring a breath he didn't know he was holding when he's finally gestured to a small table.

Jaskier seems wary at first, but relaxes slightly when Geralt asks him what he's been up to. He does listen, for once, asking questions and humming along, even when he's sure the reality has been quite embellished. The bard doesn't mention anything that could be related to his weight loss or his lack of sleep, and he doesn't ask, as much as he wants to. He doesn't want to ruin everything. Not again.

When he's finally asked if he's done anything ballad-worthy in the past months, he makes an effort to remember every hunt he did. He describes the less interesting ones in a few words and makes an effort to give details on the others. He tries to use more words, more pertinent ones because he doesn't want this conversation to be over and because, if only for a moment, Jaskier seems happy.

A drink turns into two. Into a pitcher on their table.

A few minutes turn into a few hours. Into a full afternoon.

By the time Geralt realises for how long they've been talking, it's already starting to get darker outside. Too faintly for human eyes for now, but that would not last.

He's supposed to have left long ago. He could still make it to the forest in time if he pushed Roach to a good trot but...

He doesn't want to anymore.

"I'll go ask for a room."

He informs Jaskier as he gets up, slaloming his way to the innkeeper. A room would leave him with less coin than he'd like, but things were going too well to stop now. The bard talked, smiled even, and more time with him was well worth running low on cash.

He should have known things were going too well.

The inn was full. Since the middle of the afternoon.

There's a taste of bile in the back of his mouth when he drags himself back to his chair, all but flopping on it. _Fuck_. He didn't want to leave.

"They're full," he informs Jaskier, hardly containing a defeated sigh. "I... need to leave now, or I'll have to drink a potion to make camp."

Geralt would rather stay up all night so he could get just a few more hours with Jaskier, but he obviously needed the sleep. His heart throbs in his chest as he wonders how he'll find the bard next time, if there's a next time at all.

"It was nice seeing you again."

That's all he manages, when he wants to ask the human to come with him. Wants to ask if they could meet in the morning and talk some more, he's sure he could find a hunt he hasn't talked about yet or maybe an old one, or something history got wrong... but he can't. Not after what he did.

"You can stay in my room. I'll be up all night writing anyway, so if you can bear with the scratching of my quill you can borrow the bed. You haven't finished telling me how exactly you killed that harpy and if I want to write a song I need _details_ , you know?"

He knows he should refuse. He did nothing to deserve that kindness, and he would rather leave Jaskier his bed so he could sleep but... Well. He couldn't let the occasion slip. So he says everything he can remember about that harpy, down to her colors. He eventually runs out of hunts the bard hasn't heard about and starts to give more details about old ones.

He goes on until they're shooed out of the common room because, according to a rather tired innkeeper, "there are people that need to sleep my good sirs," and after months of being alone and on the road, following Jaskier to his room upstairs feels like going to an entirely different realm.

"Are you really going to write all night?"

"That's the plan Geralt, just take the bed."

He can tell the human's tired in the way he carries himself, but knows better than to point it out. It would only make things worse and end up with Jaskier doing stupid things just to stay awake and prove his point, which was not the goal. If he left him alone there was a chance he'd realise he needed to sleep, so he doesn't argue and leaves his things in a corner before he undresses and slides under the slightly scratchy covers. The mattress is a bit uneven, but this still much more comfortable than the forest floor, and Geralt decides he won’t complain when he finds out he doesn’t have to bend his head uncomfortably to let his eyes rest on Jaskier's back.

He doesn't sleep.

He listens to the scratching of the quill as the bard scribbles and tries to work out a new song, to the quiet crackling of the fire, to the beating heart and breathing pattern he knew so well.

He's almost meditating when he catches a third yawn, an annoyed grumble he doesn't quite understand, and he's sure he just saw Jaskier _shiver_. He doesn't know if it's of exhaustion or simply because he's cold, but either way there was a simple solution.

"I can lay out my bedroll if you want the bed."

"I do not want it, Geralt."

"Jaskier…"

He tries to sound not too menacing like he used to. Even if the bard had never been afraid of him, he deserved to be treated more kindly, especially after what he said. He just wanted him to know he wasn't stupid and could see that he wasn't comfortable on his chair. Far from it. So he keeps his eyes on the human's back until he turns around, holding his gaze.

Geralt sits up, perhaps a bit concerned but not surprised when he can smell an awful mix of anger, sadness and pain emanating from Jaskier.

"I can see you're shivering."

He adds, careful not to raise his voice, trying to keep his intonation soft. He couldn't say he was worried about him. He had no right to. But he could try to get him to at least acknowledge the fact that _no_ , this wouldn’t do.

“And _how exactly_ sleeping in the same bed I have in the last few days while you’re on the floor is supposed to help? I’ve been cold for _weeks_ , Geralt.”

The witcher can smell Jaskier’s anger flare up, its scent sharp and coppery like blood, before it crashes down and fades into something else. He’s not sure to know what it is until he looks at the bard’s face. _Regret_. It’s regret.

“I could…” He starts without thinking about what he’ll say next, searching for any idea that could cross his mind. “I can lay in front of the fire and give you my blanket.”

“Do you really think I’d invite you to my room then let you sleep on the floor?”

If he didn’t know the human any better, he’d swear he was almost _snarling_ at him. The anger’s back, and he could choke on it. As much as he deserved it, this was not what he wanted. Not what he thought.

“Of course not.” He whispers, letting his shoulders drop instead of squaring them like he always did, hoping it would help to appease Jaskier. “I just… To me it’s obvious that you’re terribly cold, and I can’t leave you like this.”

“So you care what happens to me, now?”

It was unfair that his sharpened senses helped him read every emotion going through his... through _the_ bard, but he would be helpless without them. And while the tone Jaskier used was clearly an attempt to hurt him, the pain underneath was impossible to miss.

“I do.”

His throat is impossibly tight when he tries to swallow, to buy some time before he has to speak. He knows two words aren’t even remotely enough, and that he’ll need to give those damn _details_ Jaskier seems to crave so much.

“I shouldn’t have. At the mountain. You… It wasn’t your fault. I was the one to choose the Law of Surprise. And with the djinn… You were injured. Because of me. And… And _I_ was the one who agreed to pay whatever the price, _I_ was the one who fucked up with a stupid wish.”

Geralt ended up talking a lot more than he intended to and he had yet to tell the most important part, the one that crushed his chest under its weight.

“I’m sorry Jaskier. I’m sorry for the mountain, for not being a better friend, for not finding you sooner. I thought you’d do great without me, I thought I’d be just fine. I was _wrong_ and I want to make it up to you.”

Once again the words flow out of his mouth even as he tries to stop them. He doesn’t dare to look at the human’s face, his eyes fixated on a collarbone, and holding his breath was becoming more tempting with each second.

 _I miss you_ , he realises, and this time he manages to keep his mouth shut. He has no right to.

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“I’d start by warming you up, so I’d have a chance to do the rest.”

At least his joke works, and even if Jaskier decides they’re done after this evening, he can’t blame him, he deserves nothing more, the shy smile that illuminated his entire face is a blessing in itself.

“I want an example of what you might do. So I know if I need to disappear before you wake up.”

The witcher snorts lightly, tilting his head to the side as he fights and loses against the smirks that tugs at his lips. There’s something he always wanted to do and never dared to ask for, despite how it pained him just a little more every year.

“I could show you my home. Bring you to Kaer Morhen. You’d meet my family.”

The bard barely breathes, and he stays focused on a small hole in the blanket he’s still covered with. The silence is almost unbearable, especially since he doesn’t breathe at all. He’s not sure he’d like what he could scent.

“You know what always kept me warm?”

"Hmm?"

"Sleeping next to you."

Geralt shuffles closer to the wall, making space so Jaskier could lay down too as he casts his gaze away from his stripping form. He then stays carefully still, letting him squirm and settle into the bed as he always did. It was so familiar that it made something in his heart ache, in the best way possible. He wanted to run his fingers through the brown locks, wanted to press closer… but he had no right to.

“This doesn't mean you're forgiven, Geralt.”

“Good night, Jaskier.”

He murmurs, smiling, because he can't hear any heat behind the words. Some wariness, sure, but he couldn't blame him. Not after what he did.

He doesn’t close his eyes right away. He doesn't want to, not before he can hear the human’s breathing even out, his heartbeat slowing to his usual sleeping rhythm. Not before he can feel him getting closer, seeking warmth. And only then he indulges into something he couldn't remember not wanting to and yet never dared to act on. He cranes his neck to burrow his nose in Jaskier's soft hair.

For the first time in the season, he falls asleep feeling hopeful and dreams of a bright smile that smells like sunshine, chamomile and _home_.


End file.
